The only thing Ciaran could manage was staying upright. If he fainted and toppled, Eilidh would be unable to get him backatop the horse—and he knew that the stubborn minx was too hardheaded to leave him behind, even though she should.
By the time they reached the gate to Buchanan Keep, he was nearly insensible. He responded only to Eilidh’s extortions as she half-dragged, half-guided him back to the—oh, for Christ’s sake—the same bloody sickroom where he’d been previously sequestered for way too long.
“I hate it here,” he grumbled, his head swimming.
“Aye, I ken,” Eilidh soothed. She was being so lovely and tender and sweet, and as much as Ciaran enjoyed it, he missed her mischief, too. “Lay down, though, and I’ll fetch ye a healer.”
Och, he didn’t like that, no more than he liked the way her long, pale braid was streaked with his blood. He reached up a hand as though he could wipe away the crimson. It was as soft as he’d imagined, that hair. He grew distracted by the silken feel of it between his fingers until Eilidh tugged it free from his grip.
“Dinnae go,” he complained when he recalled that she intended to leave him. “It’s naught but a scratch. There’s no need to alert the others; it will just bring more trouble than it’s worth. Bide, Eilidh, bide. Just lie with me a while.”
It was very muchnota scratch, and if it had been, he never would have been so lost as to demand that she lie beside him. But half-delirious from blood loss and pain, he found that he didn’t much mind the idea of dying, as long as he could do so with Eilidh in his arms.
She yanked her hand from under his.
“I will not let ye bleed to death just for the sake of your pride,” she snapped at him, and he felt himself smile. Ah, there she was, his fierce wee lassie.
“Ye foolish, gallus mon,” she grumbled at him, and he tried to explain that it wasn’t pride that made him want to keep his injury a secret, but fear—fear that he would be discovered, that he would lose her, that he would loseeverything. But thedarkness edged further in before he could find the words, and when he blinked again, Eilidh had been joined by Vaila and the cantankerous old healer, who was muttering ominously about idiotic warriors mistreating their bodies.
“What the hell is going on?” the warrioress Donaghey demanded, taking in the bloody scene in the room, her hands propped on her hips. She was wearing a dressing gown, and her dark hair was loose about her shoulders; she clearly had just come from her bed.
Eilidh was seated at Ciaran’s bedside, just as she had been the first time he’d woken in this Keep. This time, however, her slim fingers were wrapped tightly around his good wrist, as though she could keep him amongst the living with the force of her touch.
“Ciaran and I went for a ride,” she explained, her voice breaking and a tear dripping down her cheek. It left a clear track in the muck and mud on her beautiful face. “And there were mercenaries. They tried to take me.” Her voice was hard as steel, but she had to pause to gather herself before she could finish. “To Gordon.”
Even beneath the sluggishness brought about by his injury, Ciaran felt a flash of fury over the filthy things those mercenaries had threatened Eilidh with. He wished he had killed them more slowly. They deserved pain.
Vaila crossed to her sister and wrapped Eilidh in her arms, heedless that the younger Donaghey lass was streaked in gore.
“Never,” she muttered fiercely, pressing a firm kiss to her sister’s temple. “No man will ever take ye—not so long as I draw breath.”
When Vaila turned to look down at Ciaran, there was a softness in her expression that he’d never before seen. The warrioress lost her sharp edges where her sister was concerned.
“Thank ye,” she said with feeling. “Ye saved my sister from a horrible fate. We are greatly in your debt.”
He nodded, the gesture taking more than the usual effort, not only because of his physical weakness but because he knew it was all so impossible. If he didn’t deliver Eilidh to Gordon, his clan would suffer, and he could not bear that. But he could not bear betraying her, either. And he could see no other route to take that would spare him from one of these two intolerable fates.
“He needs rest,” Eilidh insisted, tugging her sister away. “Ye should have seen him—he fought off ten men like it was nothing.”
Admiration and pride shone in her voice, and it made Ciaran feel lower than a rat.
“And he will live to tell the tale,” the healer interjected with that warmth he only showed toward Eilidh. “The wound will be painful for weeks, but it will mend.”
There was naked relief on Eilidh’s face, but Ciaran was of two minds. If he’d died, at least he would have left this world doing something honorable. And Gordon couldn’t blackmail a corpse.
“Good,” Eilidh said, a smile lighting up her face. “Good. I’ll stay with him while he?—“
“No.” The objection, low and firm, came from Vaila. She gave Eilidh a quelling look. “No. Ye heard the master healer, Eilidh. He will recover. And ye need to rest, too. There’s no sense wearing yourself to the bone when he will just be sleeping. Use your sense.”
Eilidh visibly hesitated, so Ciaran forced himself to smile, though he suspected that it looked more like a grimace.
“Go,” he urged her. “I’ll be fine.”
He had survived the tender ministrations of the master healer before, and though the man wasn’t nearly as soft of handor pleasing to look upon as Eilidh, Ciaran supposed he would survive it all again.
Eilidh frowned, but she nodded and let her sister lead her away, Vaila luring her out with promises of a hot bath before she returned to her bed. Ciaran tried not to be affected by the way Eilidh cast him one last look before she was tugged out of sight, as though she could not bear to leave him without confirming once more that he was alive.
He tried even harder not to think of the way she’d kissed him. He would have enough time to torture himself over that memory when she had learned of his perfidy.
